The Hard Cold Shoulder - L A Sykes

by Near To The Knuckle

  Copyright © 2017 by L A Sykes

  Published by Near To The Knuckle an imprint of Gritfiction Ltd

  All rights reserved.

  Digital Formatting by Craig Douglas

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. The stories may not be reprinted without permission. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the authors’ work.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintended.

  L A Sykes

  L A Sykes is from Atherton, Greater Manchester, UK. He studied psychology and criminology before working for a decade in acute psychiatry and spent two years working at Wigan and Leigh Disability Partnership.

  His work has been up at the likes of Shotgun Honey, Lurid Lit, Nightmare Illustrated, Blink Ink and others and has appeared in the Dog Horn Press punkPunk! anthology with a story co-written with Mark Slade.

  His work has been podcasted at Blackout City and Dark Dreams.

  He can be contacted at sykesfiction@live.co.uk.

  The Cold Hard Shoulder

  One

  I was already knee deep in hopeful guilt cheques from those who cared too late about the probable dead, sat on the North Western train station platform bench next to the payphone at dusk, when the call came from small town loser Tommy Rellis. The same long time gambling addict and brain dead, bottom-rung insurance fraudster I’d nicked on numerous occasions in the decade I’d served as a detective for the Greater Manchester Police before things went awry. The swagger from his once broad shoulders had dissipated and spread to his once cocky voice but I recognised the distinctive nasal whine immediately; static garble scratched at my eardrum, followed by: “Detective Pitkin, is that you?”

  “Just Pitkin, Tommy. What can I do you for?”

  “I want, no, need her back, Mr. Pitkin. It went too far, way too far. I can’t live like this, with this. You need to get her back, before it’s too late. I mean, far as me and her goes it probably is too late, I can’t see how she’ll ever forgive me but, Jesus, I can’t leave it like this. Please, I’ve got money now.”

  I could smell the pleading despair on his breath through the wires. I never asked any of them how they’d know I was there and never asked for any up front from a client on the wrong side of the edge. I never needed to and never wanted to. Worst case scenario I could end up balls deep in a mess with my prints on half a fee and my old employers with a grip on my shoulder. So I made a habit of staying clean until curtain call with the desperate. Tommy fell face first into that category. Those like Tommy, drowning in their predicaments, never needed preamble small talk either and I liked it that way.

  “Who’s her?”

  “My daughter, Tabitha. My only kid and all, what was I thinking-”

  “You’ll have to ask a psychologist about that. When was the last time you saw her?”

  “God, must be months I think-”

  “Months? Crisis of conscience struck you, Tommy?”

  “Fuck you. You have to understand, man, the ex has an injunction out on me. I’m not allowed to go within a mile of ‘em. I’d tried to just push ‘em out of my mind, like, because there’s no way I’m doing more jail time and that bitch would have loved to get me locked up again. I…I was going through tough times, you…you have to understand. Then I heard she was up at the Royal at the A and E. There’s a nurse I’d been fucking, Sandra, she phoned me up. She recognised the name, said she’d O.D.’d on the Brown and was lucky to live through it. She was only there a couple of hours when he picked her up and took her. She looked in a state and thought I should know, said she should have been kept in longer. It was supposed to be over by now, it didn’t go the way we planned. Was supposed to be a straight forward kidnap deal, I thought I’d proper put the wind up the bitch ex, scare her to death like, and get back a chunk of that child support she’s probably pissed up the wall, you know, and then maybe I’d pay off my debts and have a shot at custody. But he, he -,” the voice cracked and sobs wet my ear.

  The Glasgow to London Euston idled into the station; headlights pierced the darkness, the screeching brakes muffled the spatter of rainfall.

  “Go on,” I prompted, failing to keep the contempt out of my voice.

  He cleared his throat and continued, “He said it’d be easy. He said he’d keep her comfortable, safe you know, till the drop off. Soon as we had the money, we’d get her back safe and everything would be hunky dory,” grated laughter and weeping, “he fucking backed out. He phoned and said he was tipped off the cops were onto us and we’d be picked up when we showed up for the money and he had no choice but to make money off her in the long run instead. I begged him to just give her back and call it all off as a bad job but he…he just laughed and put the phone down on me. I’ve been all over Greater Manchester, every fucking back street all hours day and night. I’ve seen nothing of her. I didn’t know where he even lived or where he was going to keep her. I never even asked, and how can I go to the police? How? I’d be strung up, an accomplice to his own daughter’s kidnap. You need to help me…” The voice broke in to hysterics.

  I took his address down with the promise that I’d show for payment regardless of result and nothing else.

  He sobbed louder as he choked out her description and distinguishing features; the vividness of her in my mind’s eye needed no note taking and it would remain there for long, long after.

  I gave him a few seconds to compose himself then asked, “Who’s he?”

  “The Joey.”

  “Joey who?”

  “No, he’s called The Joey. Fuck knows his real name, I never asked. I never even asked, what the fuck was I thinking? Met him at a backroom card game somewhere, a pub off King Street I think, a while back. Got to talking and…and I’ve tried tracking him down and nobody knows who he is, or even if they do they don’t want to tell me. What was I thinking?” His voice broke again.

  “I’ll come for the money when it’s over,” I repeated.

  “Bring her back safe, Mr. Pitkin, I’m so so sorry, please bring her bac-”

  “If I bring her back safe, I’m taking every penny you’ve got.”

  “Hang on, every penny? That’s a bit harsh-”

  I hung up the phone and watched the train gear up for departure. Blank faces stared out at the deserted platform, giving me as long a look as the bench and the swirling litter.

  I headed up the concrete steps and past the night ticket master. He regarded me with the same empathic look every night, “Still no show of her, mister?” He asked with a sympathetic smile.

  I forced a smile back and shook my head.

  He’d forged the idea I was waiting for a long lost love to come back and reunite with me in an empty train station in the North West at dusk on a cold, rain swept night. I never put him straight. In a way, maybe he was right. Maybe I was and I didn’t want to realise. In the end I convinced myself of it. I called her Hope and dreamed she had a warm embrace and sweet perfume and two one way tickets to far, far away.

  I waved him goodnight and stood in the acidic downpour for a while in this year of Our Lord two thousand and thirteen, letting it melt away fleeting flights of fancy until reality stepped in with the hard cold shoulder.

  Two

  I jumped a black cab to the Royal Infirmary, ignoring the driver’s rote comments about flood warnings and thund
erstorms brewing in the thick blanket of clouds smothering the moonlight. I told him to wind down all the windows.

  “It’s Baltic, man,” he replied in a thick Scottish brogue.

  “Open them all, now,” I shouted, my body tensing. I could have sworn I heard him mutter nutcase under his breath. “What did you say?”

  “You’re the boss, I said.”

  The air took the edge off and I pushed my arm out of the window, concentrating on the stinging in my hand from the harsh elements.

  Rounding the corner at the top of the sloped street, lines of protesters had set up stall for the night, campaigning against the Conservative – Lib Dem public service slashes. Fierce chants mingled with jovial solidarity in the lashing rain, placards hoisted roadside. Traffic crawled slowly with drivers beeping and shouting words of encouragement. I caught sight of signs in bold red lettering, one saying:

  SAVING THE NHS IS SAVING OUR SELVES

  another

  CONNING AND DEMOLISHING – FAILED AT MAJORITY ELECTION, FAILED ON PROMISES.

  My stomach twisted; the sentiments displayed reminded me of the outraged militancy running through the station when the austerity cuts hit the police force. Speeches in the canteen and standing shoulder to shoulder in camaraderie for right and just and safe streets and our presence and I pined for the bland food and the stale coffee and the damp office and shambolic chaos of live incident rooms crackling with nervous excitement. I forced the rose tinting nostalgia away remembering the hypocrisy, recalling protest containment war stories told by some older coppers, laughing as they described waving money at starving miners and taking their numbers off their shoulders as they described wading into picket lines on horseback. I saw their fond memories dance in their eyes, lighting up their faces, memories of being drafted in on overtime for battles with people giving the big no to the policy makers in the Poll Tax Riots back in ‘90. I realised I was better off neutral to the whole game.

  The driver seemed to read my thoughts.

  Pulling into the car park he said, “Takes you back, don’t it laddie? Thatcher and that fucking poll tax. What a kerfuffle that was. These tossers in now, they idolise the old bitch. They’d better enjoy their time in power, I’m telling you, ‘cos they won’t be getting back in for decades after the mess they’re making. They’re too far removed from the common struggle, them without the head starts in life, like. Fuck’s sake, I read in the paper the other day a cripple topped hisself ‘cos he’d been told his disability money was being cut. A cripple, man, can you believe that? And they’re saying they’re going to spend millions on Thatcher’s funeral. Beggars fucking belief.”

  “It’ll be for security, mostly, I’d imagine.”

  “What kind of corpse needs millions of pounds for security purposes? Fuck’s sake. And these tossers idolise her? Can’t support your living disabled but they can spend millions protecting a corpse and her funeral from being wrecked? Beggars fucking belief.”

  I shrugged. “I’m not really into politics.”

  He snatched the tenner from my outstretched arm. Charles Darwin’s ghostly face beamed luminous in what looked like consternation on the note in the overhead light. “Politics? It’s about humanity, not fucking policy, man. This country is heading for disaster,” he screeched through the window. I left him to it and dawdled for a minute in the open space.

  ***

  The hospital’s red brick Victorian parapets jutted into the sable sky. Its ambulance bay was empty of vehicles and scattered with dressing gowned smokers on drips, shivering under the modern addition of a slanting fibreglass porch shelter. A queue weaved through the main entrance doors from the A and E department desk and I forced myself forward, shoved my way in between makeshift bloodied bandages and relentless retching into the adjacent medical admissions unit.

  A gaggle of night nurses sat gossiping around the front desk about the industrial action. I picked out the senior staff and pulled her aside by flashing my GMP emblem with my ring finger over the validity date and my middle finger over the name, keeping the mug shot visible.

  She smoothed out her uniform, the smile faded from her rouge lips and a crease forged itself in the centre of her forehead.

  Another nurse giggled and said, “Watch out for his truncheon Vanessa, especially if his handcuffs are furry.”

  Vanessa flushed and replied, “Haven’t you got work to be getting on with?” failing to pull off an authoritative tone.

  I waved my warrant card around and addressed the giggling staff. “This floor could do with mopping. And haven’t you got patients to attend to? Or are you on strike in here, hiding from the cold?” They shared a snigger and busied themselves shuffling papers.

  “Vanessa, where can we get some privacy? I won’t keep you long.”

  She gestured to an empty office down the corridor. I took a deep breath to steady myself for the cramped alcove and went in, she following me without hesitation. Before her backside touched the chair I said, “Tabitha Rellis was admitted here last night with a heroin overdose. What did she say, who’d she leave with, and when?” The nurses’ hand tremored and dilating blue irises darted around.

  “I, Officer –”

  “Detective”

  “Detective, you know I can’t give out that kind of information without good reason.”

  “I’ve got a good reason, Vanessa love. I’m guessing by your shakes you were on duty when you discharged her. I’m guessing the bloke you discharged her into the care of didn’t look so legit on reflection. I’m guessing you’re shitting bricks round about now because you failed to trigger child protection given she’s fifteen. I’m guessing she never even spoke to you, nor you her. I’m guessing you took all the information from the bloke and had a slight distrust that she was twenty from the fake D.O.B. he gave but you were either too intimidated or too busy to check. I’m guessing you wrote her off as a junkie anyway. I’m guessing you went home that morning and it scratched around in the back of your mind for a while, the girls face, looking peaceful. Too peaceful for a fifteen year old in the company of a stranger and who’s got oblivion ripping through her bloodstream. But they’re gone now, and there’s a thousand more winging their way here in the back of a box with blue lights. I’m guessing you eventually slept and slept well and when you woke up she was nothing more than a faded nightmare. I’m guessing we have a good reason to talk.”

  She struggled to sip water from a small plastic cup through increasing shakes and hunched over fiddling with a blister pack of Diazepam. I reached down and popped a yellow into her palm, slipping the rest of the foil packet into my black overcoat. She gulped and stared at the lime green wall and started to talk with a waver in her whispering voice.

  “I had my suspicions she wasn’t twenty. I mean, she was thin and had such a small frame on her, but, who isn’t on heroin? He, well, he looked mad, angry mad, when he carried her into the emergency department. I saw them coming in, I was having a fag at the entrance. She was out of it, her head bobbing, she looked…well, she looked dead to be honest. They’d brought her straight through to us by the time I’d got back in. We dripped her up, nothing fancy, and let the drugs wear off. Poor bugger was worn out, all she managed to say in the time she was with us was her name, just the once and all. We told him to leave her till at least the morning, but he insisted on taking care of her. He looked angry like I said. You know, comes home, finds his daughter off her head on drugs, you can understand it, us letting them go can’t you, especially being twenty, twenty is a grown adult. We can’t jus-”

  “What was the address he gave?”

  She rifled through a metal filing cabinet, pulled out a red cardboard file and mumbled a street of terraced state houses that had been condemned by the council eight months ago. The street was bulldozed rubble now.

  “Where’d the ambulance pick her up?”

  “It didn’t. He brought her. It was a Silver Tigra, I remember that. I remember seeing the doors left wide open. He left it in the
ambulance bay when he carried her in. I remember when security came to have him shift it. Come to think of it, apart from then he never left her side all the time they were here.”

  “Registration?” She shrugged her shoulders, then pushed back from me as I swore under my breath.

  “What did he look like?”

  “Mr Rellis? Thin, dark eyes, five foot five or thereabouts.” Half a foot smaller than the Tommy Rellis I knew.

  “Anything else you remember that I should know about?”

  She shook her head and made eye contact for the first time, “I, well, I want to ask about discretion, I mean…not for my sake, but the reputation of the Trust. The government wants to shut us down, make everything private, a scandal or something would give them plenty of ammunition, if you know what I mean. They’re trying to make out it’s our fault that there are no beds and ridiculous waiting times. As though we’re incompetent or lazy, instead of telling the truth that they’ve left us with too little staff to run the place. God, they’d love a story like this, with the strike and all. Especially the strike, can you imagine the headlines? It had nothing to do with that, detective, I can assure you. We were staffed as normal, covered, which isn’t saying much I know, but you know what I mean. We weren’t short because of it, is what I’m trying to say. I should have said or done something, Jesus, I could get struck off for this.”

  I stared hard at her shaking head and twitching hand rippling the surface of the water in the cup. “I’ve no control over that. I’m sure you all do your best, but just remember for the future that nobody is just a junkie. Because we all are, for some things, aren’t we?” I said, nodding at the discarded benzodiazepine box. “One more thing before I leave you to get back to work. What can you tell me about